


Unfollowed

by waywardspirits



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean's POV, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Pining? Maybe?, Short One Shot, i don't even know man, idk what to classify this as, it's a weird lil prose-y oneshot thing, manpain gives me air
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:13:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9449684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardspirits/pseuds/waywardspirits
Summary: Don't think about it, he commands himself.Take all that shit and stuff it way down deep.It's an order he can never hope to follow, and that terrifies him. What good is a soldier if they don't do what they're told? What good is a soldier thatcan'tdo what they're told?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah I dunno man. This is some kinda weird half-poetry bullshit I wrote in like 10 minutes because I'm trying to bust out of a block.

It's hard to think about his hands. Hard to remember how they felt—calloused, rough—when they wrapped themselves around his throat. He doesn't want to remember it anymore, doesn't want to relive the moments when those hands cradled his face like he was something to be worshiped, like he was something to be exalted.

_Don't think about it,_ he commands himself. _Take all that shit and stuff it way down deep._

It's an order he can never hope to follow, and that terrifies him. What good is a soldier if they don't do what they're told? What good is a soldier that _can't_ do what they're told?

Oh, but those hands. They've bruised and drawn blood, they've caressed and soothed and healed. They've skimmed over his body with a touch that felt like rapture, they've taken him apart bit by bit, they've carefully rebuilt him. They've helped him to his feet and knocked him down into the dirt and trembled as they traced words he'll never understand into the spaces between his ribs.

It's dangerous to remember, but he can't stop.

He'll spend the rest of his life trying to forget that voice and all of its different tones, rich and sandpaper-harsh all at once. _Don't think about it. Erase those things. Block it out._

But he _can't._ The whispers he always breathed across his lips, heavy under the weight of the empty promises hanging on every word. The quiet moans, always uttered in the dark like earnest prayers while they held onto eachother with something like desperation fanning the flames. The _hello_ 's and the _goodbye_ 's and all the unimportant stuff in between. It's all burned into his brain, branded into his soul, and as much as it hurts to remember, he can't bring himself _not to._

Thinking about his eyes is even worse. He still knows the exact shade of blue, because he still sees them in his dreams. Standing under that gaze was like being lost in a sea he would gladly drown in. He wanted to slip under that surface and sink to the bottom, because maybe then he would understand him better, but he didn't get that far. The best he could do was tread water and try not to freeze under that stare, try not to feel like he was naked on a spiritual level, try to resist the urge to hide himself away from that look of _knowing_ so he'd never expose the worst parts of himself to it.

He always failed.

He always ran.

He was always so afraid.

He still is.

 


End file.
